“Shiplord,” Dalcoran gasped.
“Ah.” Airon’s eyes sparkled, and he raised a palm to Catling. “Not what I expected. What if I ordered you to torture one of your companions? The guard behind you?”
Catling turned to Whitt, and he gave her the slightest of nods. At his back, all around them, Cull Tarr observers waited with eager anticipation. Could they all be pure? Had they all refrained from Ellegean fare, fresh fruits and produce, grilled fishes and lamb, juice of the lissom and mugs of tipple? In her experience, the privileged never expected punishment for their transgressions.
She brushed Rose with peace, and then started to her right and pointed with an accusatory finger at the first Cull Tarr, flooding his skull with magnificent pain. The man had no reaction, and she moved on, her finger aiming at the next like a steel-tipped spear. Nothing again. Then the preacher clutched his head and fell to his knees. Airon jolted to his feet, his cavalier facade overcome by a wave of fury. She rotated, one by one until six Cull Tarr begged for relief.
She met the Shiplord’s eyes with frosty calm. “Six Cull Tarr in your company are impure. Any influencer could sway them against you, ply them with love or fear, pleasure or pain. I am useful to you, Tull Airon, if we reach an agreement.”
The muscles in his jaw hardened. “Drown them.” Catling held her composure as the six offenders were dragged away, cursing and pleading, the preacher the loudest of them all. Airon’s interest swung back to her. “What happened in the fane?”
“Simple poison,” Vianne said. “I watched her add it to their water.” Catling stared at the doyen. If Vianne attempted to conceal Catling’s deadly capabilities, her method was no less perilous.
Her words rang of betrayal, and yet, Catling felt the subtle threads of love and trust Vianne sent her way. An oathbreaker, she spread her warmth over all of them, Whitt and Gannon, even Dalcoran, to be interpreted as it would. Was her kindness an apology for treachery or a plea for trust?
“Vianne lies.” Linc’s handsome face darkened. “She used her eye, the same way she murdered Kest.”
“By touch,” Vianne argued. “An influencer can only heal and kill through touch, and the Cull Tarr are not immune. You, Shiplord, are not immune to the touch of death unless you employ her shield.”
“Is this so?” The Shiplord stood with his fists on his hips, the question directed at Dalcoran.
“She speaks the truth,” he admitted.
“Poison killed those at the fane, nothing more.” Vianne approached Catling, yanked her close, and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a silver flask and held it up. Her expression triumphant, she backed away and stood in alliance with Dalcoran.
The unfamiliar flask hadn’t been in Catling’s pocket, yet she didn’t deny it was hers. Standing beside Kadan, Whitt at her back, she faced the Shiplord’s scowl.
He returned to his throne, elbow on the polished arm and chin propped on his fist. “I’ve decided I don’t require the child. Feed her the poison.”
Catling spoke over Whitt’s whispered curse, “You will die, Shiplord, before it touches her lips.”
“Give it to the slave.” Vianne held out the flask to Gannon. He looked up at her, his forehead twisted in confusion.
“I agree,” Dalcoran said.
“Catling?” Whitt whispered. She dosed him with her authority and tapped him with love, hoping to stay his hand. She held her breath and nodded. Was it a ruse or had she agreed to sacrifice her friend?
With a jerk of his head, Airon ordered three jacks forward. Gannon’s eyes wandered between them, his lack of panic at odds with his impending death and the affection soothing his distress. Catling shifted her shield, freeing him from Vianne’s sway.
The flask exchanged hands. Gannon’s eyes sharpened as if he’d woken from a sweet dream into his final nightmare. He backed up, freeing chain for a fight, fear and fury battling for control of his face. At the last moment, his eyes found Catling. “Don’t blame you,” he rasped, and she almost twisted away.
The guards descended on him. He swung a punch, connecting with a chin before they wrestled him to his back. His fists struck at Cull Tarr flesh, and he kicked with his unchained foot, the other shackled, his leg stretched taut. Two jacks knelt on his arms. His hands opened like claws. The third pried open his jaw and poured the flask’s contents down his throat.
The struggle collapsed, and his muscles went slack. The smell of urine hit Catling’s nose, and she swallowed a taste of bile.
“I recommend throwing him overboard before he defecates,” Vianne said, and the Shiplord gestured his agreement, tossing a key to one of the jacks. They unchained Gannon’s limp body, heaved him up by his arms and legs, and carried him out. “A queen and consort as recompense for your losses at the fane,” Vianne said.
“My vow of service?” Catling stilled her trembling.
“I will accept your oath.” Tull Airon leaned back in his chair. “Kneel.”
“Once my daughter is free.”
The man’s eyes tightened, but he nodded. Catling shared a smile with Whitt who nearly leapt across the room, picked up Rose, and strode out. Her wave of love followed them through the door. She shifted her gratitude to Kadan and Vianne. “Thank you.” As they turned to depart, she knelt before the Shiplord’s throne. They would leave her with the usurper and a room teeming with Cull Tarr elite. One thought, a heartbeat of time, was all she required.
“Vianne.” Dalcoran stepped forward and Vianne turned. Kadan looked back, his frown puckering his scar. Dalcoran waved him off. “Vianne should remain.”
Catling met Kadan’s eyes and shook her head, wishing him away with a sweep of love. He paused, his face creased with worry. Then he backed up, pivoted, and strode out.
“Shiplord,” Dalcoran said. “I suggest you retain Vianne as well. The doyen is clever and resourceful but prone to… independent action that one might perceive as dangerous to the new order. In my most earnest opinion, she will better serve you here.”
Vianne stared at him and then bowed to the Shiplord. “Despite his oath and duty, it is Dalcoran who never fully served his queen. He conspired against her, withheld his support, and delayed our responses. I shall serve you faithfully in Ava-Grea for the benefit of Ellegeance whatever her future. I have never chosen otherwise.”
“Her commitment is unparalleled,” Dalcoran agreed. “However, her choices have proven reckless in the past. She would serve you better as an advisor here with me than as a doyen in Ava-Grea.”
An amused smile on his lips, Tull Airon confided in Catling, “A conundrum, no? Two influencer doyen accusing each other of treason.” His gaze shifted to Dalcoran. “I accept your counsel, but I have sufficient influencers aboard my ship. I order you to kill her.”
Dalcoran staggered back as if shoved. He gaped at Vianne. “That wasn’t my intention, Shiplord. I merely recommended—”
“We have an agreement,” Catling interrupted.
“It's all right.” Vianne met Catling's eyes and forced a quivering smile. “Do it for Ellegeance.” Catling shook her head, and the flow of love and peace in Vianne’s influence swelled, her eyes soft with genuine emotion. “Dalcoran’s not wrong. I’ve always chosen Ellegeance over everything and everyone, even you.”
“Vianne?” Catling whispered, tears blurring her vision.
“For Ellegeance, Catling. I can’t imagine a nobler reason to die.”
Catling faced Tull Airon and covered her unmarked eye. A rainbow of color burst into her vision, the room swirling with a spectacular pageantry of emotion. Time shuffled to a halt as if dazzled by the display. Only Vianne glowed in swirling blues and teals, the hues of love and peace. She wasn’t without fear and sorrow and guilt, but those emotions flickered at the edge of an azure sea.
The room’s multihued kaleidoscope began to roll. Vermillion flames of fear erupted first from Falco Linc, words of warning stuttering from his lips. The conflagration of emotion rippled through the room like a wildfire. She watch
ed it consume the Shiplord, his eyes pools of disbelief and mouth falling open. She shielded herself and ripped the colors free.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kadan crossed the deck to the rail, heading for the gangplank, uncertain whether to wait for Vianne or flee. Stress frayed his nerves, and he questioned all he’d witnessed and felt. All of it—the strained negotiations, the drownings, Gannon’s sacrifice, Dalcoran’s presence, Vianne’s peculiar betrayal, and Catling’s shrewd calculations—it clogged his head, a puzzle making no sense.
He caught a glimpse of Jagur on a ferry at the end of the next pier. Two soaking crewmen had dragged Gannon’s body aboard. Whitt, with Rose’s arms wrapped around his neck in a stranglehold, stepped from the pier to the deck. They waited for him and for Vianne.
The door to the aftcastle opened, and instead of Vianne, Catling staggered into the sunlight. Her legs appeared wooden, her eyes blind and blinking. He would have sworn she’d fallen into a trance, except she panted for breath. All at once, he understood what she’d done. She’d left Vianne, Dalcoran, and the Shiplord like those in the fane, all of them hollowed-out husks who would die within days.
As if nothing out of place had occurred, he strode back to her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the rail. “We’re jumping.” She gaped at him as he clutched her hand. They climbed and leapt. The brilliant delta water swallowed them whole.
Catling beside him, he burst to the surface and kicked off his boots. Shouting erupted on The Sea God’s deck, echoed by the ferry’s crew. “Swim,” he yelled to her. She nodded, awakened by the salty chill.
The ferry, already loose of the pier, shoved off. The captain shouted orders, and the oars dipped, straightening the vessel and fleeing the colossal ship’s shadow. The Slipsilver’s current dragged Kadan and Catling north, and the ferry plowed through the luminescence, intending to intercept them before the river swept them to sea. Crossbow bolts plunged into the delta. The ferry retreated, allowing the current to carry it toward the breakwater, the captain bellowing warnings. Three rivermasters with coiled ropes prepared to harness waterdragons. Kadan glanced behind him at the Cull Tarr jacks running for their swift cutters and sleek carvirs.
A black bolt sliced between them and Catling gasped. Then the current swelled and picked up speed as if hurrying their escape. He glanced at Catling, her eyes wide with fear. The water lifted beneath her, and she clutched his hand, dragging him with her. They hurtled toward the ferry. At the last moment, the wave parted around the boat, thrusting them against the hull. Two crewmen grabbed his arms and heaved him onto the deck while Jagur hoisted Catling up, dripping and pale.
“Vianne?” the commander asked.
Catling stared at him, and Kadan rested a hand on his arm. “The Shiplord.”
“They’re all dead,” Catling murmured. Jagur paled, seemed to convulse as if her words were darts thrust between his ribs. He staggered to the ferry’s stern and sank to a bench, forehead resting in the palm of his hand.
Kadan couldn’t spare the time to deal with the grief and shoved it into the corner of this heart. His clothes dripping, he strode to the bow. Three massive waterdragons dragged the ferry against the current, and the crewmen rowed to the drummer’s beat, adding speed. They skimmed the water, faster than the Cull Tarr despite the bulkier craft. He gripped the rail and grimaced. The ferry was north of Elan-Sia, and they needed to head south up the Slipsilver. The Cull Tarr vessels fanned out across the navigable waterway, blocking their escape.
“Captain,” Whitt's voice called behind him. Kadan turned and looked up. Whitt sat cross-legged on the wheelhouse roof, Rose on his lap. “Captain, steer into the fog.”
The fog? Kadan squinted across the expanse of delta waters. Despite the clear sky and Summertide heat, a wall of fog charged in from the east like a herd of white horses.
“Can’t do that,” the captain shouted back. “We’ll run aground in the shallows.”
“Trust me,” Whitt called down. “We’ll get through.”
Kadan dug in his pocket for the last of his gold and handed them to the captain. “Do as he says.”
The captain eyed the coins. “Can’t spend them if I’m dead.”
“We’re all dead if we don’t squeeze through that blockade,” Kadan said and swept a wave of thrilling confidence over the captain and crew.
“Oh, Founders’ Hell.” The captain grinned, pocketed the gold, and bellowed orders, “Right standard rudder, starboard pressure.”
The ferry swung east toward the stampeding fog. Kadan joined the rivermasters at the bow. Their faces lacking any hint of concern, the tall three-fingered natives watched the waterdragons dive. Kadan enjoyed no such confidence. The trenches and salt pools lay scarcely below the surface. Hands on the rail, he braced for impact.
The ferry plowed forward, the bow flinging luminescence into a glittering wake. The fog rolled around them, as blinding as a Mur-Vallis blizzard. And the ferry moved on as if the aqueous land parted before them.
“South, Captain, quiet as the current,” Whitt called down, his arms around Rose. The captain managed the corrections to course, and the crewmen boated their oars, leaving the work to the waterdragons. Voices fell silent.
Kadan crept toward the stern. Catling attempted to heal Gannon, her cheeks glistening with grief. He winced at his negligence and knelt down beside her. “How is he?”
“In a dead sleep,” she whispered and brushed her wet hair from her face. “He barely breathed, so almost no water entered his lungs. I believe the poison is what Markim used on Rose. It was never in my pocket, Kadan. Vianne got us all out of there except herself.” She peered up at him. “She told me to do it for Ellegeance, knowing she would die.”
“Is there anything I can do?” He meant it earnestly, in the myriad ways his assistance might apply.
“No, I tended his bruises and swelling. Sleep is healthy, and he’ll wake on his own.” She glanced across the deck at Jagur. “Thank you for not telling him what I did.”
His knuckle under her chin, Kadan turned her face toward him and gave her with a stern eye. “The Shiplord killed her.”
A tear escaped down her cheek, and she nodded. Rose appeared at her side, Whitt observing from above. A sweet warmth relaxed Kadan’s shoulders, and by the ease on Catling’s face, she was an equal recipient. Rose squatted down beside Gannon and poked his nose. His eyes fluttered open, and he choked up a mouthful of water. He gazed up at the darling face and smiled.
***
Catling held Rose’s hand, keeping her close as channels parted through the shallows, wide enough for the waterdragons’ wings, deep enough for the undulating bodies and flukes at the ends of their long tails. As the ferry coursed south, the channels collapsed behind them. She looked up at Whitt where he sat alone atop the wheelhouse, his attention focused on the gauze of mist ahead.
The lower delta plain receded, the natural waterways consolidating and deepening. The veils of fog persisted, sweeping across the soggy land and luminous water, cloaking them from the Cull Tarr pursuit. It sculpted itself into a fleet of ghostly ships, dissolved and reappeared as a marching army.
Kadan continued to ease the trepidation of the captain and crew that wafted from them in waves. He and Whitt were the ones with the strength of focus, the rest of them weakened by captivity and grief.
The immediate danger past, Catling wilted, depleted. Her clothes had gone from soaked to scarcely damp, and despite the Summertide heat, she shivered, her body sapped of energy, heart broken, and mind seconding guessing her choices.
A serene peace filtered into her consciousness. Rose bolstered her reserves, an unfair burden on a child who’d endured ample trauma of her own. Catling squatted down and studied the bedraggled little face and the worry drawing circles around her daughter’s dark eyes, her rose eye. She gently squeezed the child’s delicate hand. “You needn’t worry, my love. My feelings are my own, and I prefer to feel them even when they are full of sorrow.”
The
influence faded, and Catling drew herself together. “We’re all safe now. Everyone here will keep you safe. It’s time to rest.” She sat on a bench and held Rose in her lap until sleep softened the child’s breath and worries slid from her fingertips like rain.
With the descent of dusk, the fog vanished. The web of waterways forming the delta consolidated into the mighty Slipsilver. If any Cull Tarr still pursued, they trailed far behind, unaided by rivermasters and waterdragons… and Whitt.
Catling put Rose to bed in the same small room where Gannon slept like a dead man. She returned to the deck and breathed. The velvet of the cloudless sky grew deeper, the stars more luminous. At the stern, Kadan talked quietly with Jagur. She didn’t require influence to grasp the depth of the commander’s grief, and she kept her distance, the burden of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. Despite the torrent of remorse that flooded her consciousness, they’d saved Rose, and that mattered.
Whitt lingered atop the wheelhouse, forearms resting on his knees, eyes raised to the moonlit sky. In the low light, she couldn’t see his scars, and he looked more like she remembered him, younger and innocent, without grief and the burden of knowledge accompanying age. They had both learned that, despite all its promise, life could be callous, its cruelty and suffering inescapable.
The Summertide eve carried a gentle breeze that sang with the lapping water. She climbed to the wheelhouse roof and settled beside him. He draped an arm around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Rose?” he asked.
“Asleep. She’s in your room with Gannon.”
“How is he?”
“Rose woke him. I don’t know the limits of her power. With the guild’s end, she may be more desirable, in greater danger.”
“Her eye?” The worry in his voice echoed the tension in his shoulders.
“A pretty flower,” she assured him, hoping it would remain so. “I think Markim knew it would prove useless. Maybe he suspected they would return for more. If not her, then a parade of innocents. For someone who inflicted pain, he was a kind man.”
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 15
